Mithos the Exile
by Mizagium
Summary: The Tale of Mithos. Exiled from Heimdall, and pursued by a mysterious organization, the young half-elf and his sister get caught up in the events of the 1000 year-long Kharlan War. Part 1 of 3.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: Dear readers,  
A while back, a friend and I decided to create a fanfic involving the Kharlan War and everything else that goes with it. But it seems that someone had beat us to the punch. HeroR has been weaving the same tale for a couple of months. But rather than waste a month's worth of brainstorming; we've decided to post the story.

We'll be honest: we've never seen the OVA's; Only one of us has played Dawn of the New World; and TEAM_DERRICK is my creative consultant. In fact, he's writing this disclaimer. If you're unfamiliar with his work, well... "Misty's Search for Self Realization" is just an extended fart joke. So yeah....

Well whatever. BE WARNED! CREATIVE LIBERTIES WERE TAKEN!!!! We could just come up with some half assed reasons for some of our plot points, like how history is forgotton after 4,000 or that Yggdrasil warped his tale around, but to be honest we just want to tell a good story.

All credit to Namco Bandai.  


* * *

  
_Once upon a time,  
Humankind built a great empire  
That spanned the entire world._

But the arrival of the Elves and their magic  
Caused jealousy in humans, so they built great machines  
To use it for themselves.

The machines engulfed the world in the fires of war  
As two competing human nations  
Grappled for one thousand years.

Just when the fighting seemed fiercest,  
And there would be no end,  
A prophet told the world of a half-elven youth  
Who would, one day, save the world.

* * *

Fresh fallen snow dampened the thunder of the army as it drew nearer the tiny, landlocked Flanoir. They had waited until the blizzard had subsided before mobilizing on the secluded village, had it gone on any longer, Tyr would have forced his troops to move through the storm anyway.

What a pathetic little town, Tyr thought to himself. He hated the snow, hated ice, hated anything below warm, but, as coming here was his own order, he kept his gripes to himself. The Valkyries at his back, however, had no such qualms about voicing their unhappiness. Ordinarily, Tyr would have beaten the first soldier to complain, but the less than desirable conditions put him in a charitable mood, so he let them complain. A week's march across the tundra after spending nearly a month posted guarding a savage beast? Well, Tyr was lucky morale was where it was.

Besides, his army was there mainly for show; Tyr preferred fighting his opponents one-on-one, though he hadn't since he lost his arm. He wondered if he would ever be as good as he used to be.

In any case, the chances of Flanoir resisting his army even a little were slim: the village was tiny, the people poor and beset by frigid temperatures year-round, and any news that reached them was months out of date. Advances in technology were even slower reaching this frozen hell. Tyr allowed himself a single glance back at the magitech cannons the lumbered along with his army. A single shot would force them to submission. No one even has to die.

A sharp pain coursed through his body, and a hand went instinctively to the stump of his arm. When he pulled it away, there where a few drops of sticky blood."Damn," he swore, and uttered a shirt healing spell. That would patch it up for now.

At the edge of town, Tyr called for his troops to halt. He paused a moment longer to allow the cannons to check their alignment before marching proudly into town. Flanoir was small enough that everyone could see the stranger from his or her home. What little activity that existed in this subzero climate ceased with the coming of Tyr.

"Attention, citizens of Flanoir! I am Tyr! I am seeking the so-named 'Prophet of Flanoir'!" No one stirred. No one spoke. It was as though the snow had absorbed all of their voices. "Turn her over to me at once, or face the consequences."

"Wha-What are you going to do with her?" someone asked.

"That is not any of your concern." Tyr signaled his troops to warm up one of the cannons.

"Y-Yes it is!" The woman who spoke before stepped forward timidly. "I won't let you see her until-ah!"

A ball of rainbow energy arced over the sleepy town. Everyone shut his or her eyes as its light reflected off the snow, not wishing to go blind. When Tyr blinked his eyes open, the woman was shaking, as was everyone else. Even humans could feel the amount of mana contained in that blast; to Tyr, it was like a supernova exploding in his skull.

"I have enough firepower to grind this piss-poor excuse for a town into dust, and my troops have gone quite some time without seeing a woman"-some of his troops let out yelps of agreement-"and won't be held accountable for their actions." He paused to let that sink in. "Now, take me to the prophet at once! I will not ask again!"

For a moment, it appeared that she would stand her ground, shaken and all, but then he saw the fight vanish from her, and she stood less tall. "Follow me."

Tyr gave another signal to his Valkyries to surround the town. No one was going to escape.

* * *

"…Grandma?" The young woman – Adelle was her name – opened the cottage door cautiously and peered inside. "Grandma Mimir?"

"Yes, Adelle? Who's that with you?" A frail looking old woman sat bundled in layers beside an iron stove. "Who have you brought to me?"

"He's from…"

"I am Tyr, one of the Five Jotnar."

"I can't say that I've ever heard of you, young man." The old woman looked up from the fire, allowing Tyr to see that her eyes were glazed over, milky white. She was blind. "Ah, yes. I know who you are."

Tyr stepped closer. "How can you see me?"

"I See you, but I do not see you." Her eyes shifted to focus on the crackling fire before her. "And I know why you are here. Come. Sit." She beckoned him forward. Tyr moved slowly, cautiously, and took a seat around the stove. Adelle sat close to her grandmother.

Tyr studied the two women; Adelle seemed to gain back her formally lost courage now that Tyr was in her house, and she in the company of her grandmother. "What's that on your hand?" She pointed to the jewel on the top of his exposed hand, surrounded by runes.

"Nothing." He pulled his hand into the folds of his robes. "You said you knew why I was here?"

"Yes," Mimir said "you are here about the young half-elf I prophesized." Her non-seeing eyes locked with his, and he got the distinct impression that she could see into his very soul.

"Yes. I need to know where this half-elf is. Tell me where to find him."

Mimir stared at him for a moment before, "I'm afraid I can't tell you that."

Faster than thought, Tyr was on his feet and holding the old prophet by her robes off the floor, with one arm. "Listen you old hag, I don't have time for your prophecy-riddle-bullshit. Tell me where the kid is, or I'll burn down the whole damn town, and take everyone with it!" He shook her violently.

"Grandma!" Adelle rushed to her aid, but a swift kick from Tyr sent her back to the floor.

"Leave my granddaughter alone!" the old woman protested.

"If you don't tell me what I want to know, your granddaughter will be the least of your worries." On cue, the sound of a magitech cannon shot thundered through the air, followed by the unmistakable sound of wood exploding. Screams rose in the brief silence, some of them dying by the sound of it.

"Very well," she consented.

"Grandma, no!" Adelle protested weakly. She struggled to her knees, but got no further.

"Let's go," Tyr adjusted his grip on Mimir so she was under his arm, and left the house. Adelle tried to follow but was too weak.  
A Valkyrie was waiting for Tyr. He thrust the old woman into his arms. "Put her in the carriage, we're taking her back to Svatalfaheim."

"Yes, sir!"

Once he was out of sight, Tyr called another lieutenant. "Destroy it all. Burn everything."  
"Yes sir. What about the people?"

"Hmm…take them with us." The Valkyrie saluted and ran off to order the troops below him. "We are running low on exspheres," Tyr added with a sneer.

* * *

**Two weeks later…**

"…Still asleep, Mithos?"

"Hm?" Mithos Yggdrasill lazily opened one eye to find he was standing with a chunk of break hanging out of his mouth. "Oh." He hastily chewed the food, and then poured himself a glass of water. "Guess I am."

"Didn't you sleep last night?" Martel stooped down to be on her brother's level. "Did you have those dreams again?"

"More like nightmares," Mithos recalled the frightful visions that had visited his dreams every night for the past week. "But they feel real."  
"Real?"

"It feels like something bad is coming to Heimdall, Martel. That's what the dreams said, anyway."

"Maybe you should talker to Eir," she offered. It pained her to see her brother troubled so.

"Elder Eir? Not likely she'd listen to me, I'm just a kid." What he was really saying was I'm just a half-elf.

"Mithos…" Martel impulsively hugged her brother. "Don't give up on people, you're too young to be cynical. People can change. People will change – humans and elves."

Mithos let his sister embrace him, but didn't return the sentiment. When she finally let him go, he said, "But they made us. Our blood is half human, half elf. Why won't either side accept us?"

"They let us live here, in Heimdall. They could have thrown us out after mom died, but they didn't. Remember that, please?"

"I know. I will, Martel." This time he hugged his sister.

"Thank you Mithos."

"Martel?" Mithos said a minute later.

"Yes?"

"I think maybe I will go tell Elder Eir."

"Why's that?"

"The dreams were powerful. I don't think I'm a Seer or anything, but I think I need to tell her about them, just in case."  
"Alright, I can see it's troubling you. Go on then," Martel urged.

"I won't be long!" He raced out the door.

Although it was approaching noon, the sun was just beginning to break through the trees of Ymir and Torrent. The town was always cool and shady, even in the summer months. Mithos loved it here, despite the air of hostility that followed him wherever he went.  
As per the usual custom, elves shot him dirty looks whenever he happened to walk by. Martel never let it get to her, but Mithos always nearly crumbled under the weight of all those looks. Today he tried to resist, but then he was shuffling along, staring at the ground again. Whatever was in those looks, they always made him feel ashamed of being a half-elf, even though he knew perfectly well it wasn't his fault.

He almost turned back, but be was already at the Elder's house. Two sentries stood guard outside. "What do you want?" One of them asked.

"I-I-I…" Mithos was trembling under their gaze. Why? "I n-n-need t-to sp-speak…"

"Spit it out, boy!" The other sentry shouted, which only served to make the boy even more nervous.

"IneedtospeakwiththeElder!" It came out in one excited yelp, but it conveyed the message.

"What?"

"I need to speak with Elder Eir, um, please?"

The one guard glanced over at his companion. Both emitted a contentious snort. "The Elder doesn't speak to half-elves."

"But, but it's important! I really need to-"

"What you really need to do is go home and think about how lucky you are to be living in this village still."

"What? There's no law that says I can't live here!" Mithos shouted back. A previously untapped confidence was welling up inside him. "I have just as much right to be here as you do!"

The one guard looked condescendingly offended. "Don't you dare compare yourself to me! I am a pureblood Elf, untainted by any human blood. The law of this land is that this is a village for Elves only, not humans."

"I'm an Elf, just…"

"Half-elf. Not full-Elf. Maybe your elf blood can stay here, but your human blood can't."

The other guard took a step forward. "So take the hint: go home." They way he said it suggested he meant get out. Mithos stepped back, but both guards suddenly advanced on him.

"That's enough!" Both guards flinched and turned around. "What is going on?" Elder Eir demanded.

"N-Nothing, Elder. We were just-"

"Enough. Back to your posts. ." The aging elf turned her gaze on each of the guards until the complied and took their places on either side of the door. Then she turned it on Mithos. "Well? What do you want?" She tapped her foot impatiently.

"Can I- can I speak with you?" he asked nervously.

"Oh, very well." She ushered him in and waited expectantly. "Well?" she said again.

"I-uh… I think something is going to happen to Heimdall. Something…bad." He avoided looking her in the eyes.

"Oh? Why do thin that?"

"Because…" Only now did he realize how ridiculous it sounded. But it was too late to take it back. "Because I saw it in my dreams."

"You saw it in your dreams." She repeated it, as if deciding whether it felt right on her tongue.

"I know it sounds bad, and I'm not claiming to be a Seer, but…" He glanced up at her; she had one eyebrow raised expectantly. "I really think something bad is going to happen."

Eir massaged her temples. "Look, Mithos. Thanks for your concern, but I think it's best if you just go on home."

"What? Aren't you going to do anything?"

"What can I do? You said it yourself: you're no Seer. Besides, What is there to be done? You haven't offered up any details, just a bad feeling. It's not a lot to go on. And even if it was, it would do me no good to go on the word of a…child." She narrowly avoided saying half-elf, but Mithos knew she wanted to say it.

"But-"

"That's enough," she snapped. "I thank you for your concern, but you should go home."

Mithos contemplated arguing further, but thought better of it. He left in a huff.

"Aw, so sorry she didn't listen to you!" one of the guards jeered as he walked away.

"Come back again when you're a real elf!" the other added.

Tears sprang to his eyes, and Mithos ran. He didn't run home. Instead he headed into the Torent Forest, for the deepest part, where the shrine for Origin was erected. When he arrived, he was crying. He collapsed on the ground. "Origin, help me," he pleaded.

* * *

"This the place?" A Valkyrie lieutenant asked his commanding Jotnar.

"Yeah, this is the place." Tyr picked his way through the marsh that surrounded the Elven village of Heimdall. Damn the Elves and their seclusion, he cursed them silently. "How much longer through this marsh, Freyja?"

"Not much further, Tyr." Unlike him, Freyja possessed both of her arms still. She was attractive, he was not afraid to admit. Blond hair, blue eyes, even those damn pointy ears. And the glasses…

"…Hey!" Freyja shoved him lightly.

"Huh? What?"

"I was talking to you just now," she gave him a reproachful look. He had been staring at her again, and she knew it.

"Oh, uh… sorry." He avoided her gaze. "So, uh, what were you saying?"

Freyja sighed heavily and kept quiet for a few minutes before, "You have to admire the Elves, going to great lengths to stay away from the rest of the world."

"Don't tell me you've fallen in with their crowd," Tyr said jokingly. "I mean, look at this swamp! You'd think someone would build a few wooden paths or something…"

"Not if they don't want visitors, they won't."

"Yeah, I suppose…"

Freyja stole a glance at the conceled stub of his left arm. "How is it?" she asked.

"Fine," he said curtly. "I try not to let it bother me."

They trudged on for another couple of minutes before a scout returned. He informed the two Jotnar that Heimdall was only a few hundred yards ahead.

"I think I'll go in with you this time, Tyr," Freyja said casually.

"Why's that?"

"Because, last time you went in alone, you destroyed the town."

"I had my orders," he said indignantly. Freyja grinned but went with him anyway.

* * *

He's been gone an awfully long time, Martel thought as she paced the house, waiting for Mithos to return. I wonder what happened to him. She made to go after him, but stopped when a booming voice echoed through the town.

"Attention citizens of Heimdall! We are Tyr and Freyja! We come looking for the half-elf boy that lives among you. Turn him over to us immediately or we will set our soldiers loose upon your town!"

"Mithos!" Martel whispered.

"We have no quarrel with you Elves!" This time a female voice spoke. "But if you do not deliver the half-breed to us, we will raze this village to the ground!"

Martel risked a peek outside. The two that spoke (obviously the highest rank) stood in the middle of the village, alone. Beyond the trees, Martel could sense a gathered army, small, but enough to take Heimdall. They weren't bluffing.

She snuck out the back door and crept around between houses, desperate to find Mithos before they did. But when Elder Eir came out of her house and began shouting at the two, she knew Mithos was gone; Eir would not have hesitated to turn her brother over to them. Even if they hadn't brought an army with them, she would use it as an excuse to get rid of him.

For a moment, she panicked, before remembering Mithos's favorite spot to be alone. Making sure she wasn't being followed, Martel backed silently away from the village center and towards Torent Forest. She knew the way, all elves did, but the path was deliberately confusing to anyone not already familiar with it. Many paths led in circles, and some to dead ends. There was only one way through, and only one destination.  
Martel found Mithos laying on the ground, staring at the slab that supposedly held the summon spirit Origin. "Mithos, what are you doing here?"

"Talking to Origin," he said absently.

"What? No, Mithos! We have to get out of here!"

"Why?"

"Two people showed up in town, with an army! They're looking for you!"

Mithos sat up. "Looking for me? Why?"

"I don't know! They said they wanted the half-elven boy who lived here! That's you!" She pulled him to his feet and started dragging him. "Come on, we have to leave!"

* * *

"I told you already, I don't know where Mithos is!" Elder Eir shouted at Tyr and Freyja.

"Then I'm afraid we'll have to carry out our threat. I'm very sorry," Tyr said with mock apology. Freyja, if you please?"

Freyja sighed, but signaled the Valkyries forward. A group of Elves gathered in front of the approaching army, obviously intent on resisting. "Stand aside," Freyja told them. "If you value you lives, stand aside!"

But the Elves did not stand aside; a volley of fireballs and thunderbolts smacked into the Valkyries. Only a few troops went down, and even then only stunned. The rest held their ground and retaliated with shots from hand-held magitech cannons; they shot faster than the Elves could cast more magic. The squad moved on, with no casualties.

Horrified, Elder Eir called out to the rest of her people, "Stand down! Don't fight them! They'll kill you!"

Confused, the Elves stepped aside, and let the Valkyries pillage and burn their homes. In minutes the whole village was engulfed in fire, and the Valkyries began filing out of the village.

"Let that be a lesson to you!" Tyr announced. "You do not harbor half-elves from the Jotnar! We will return tomorrow with the same request. If you do not comply, we will begin taking lives!" With that, he and Freyja followed the Valkyries out into the Ymir.  
Finally free to act, the Elves set to work putting out the fires with water spells, and rebuilding homes destroyed by the fires. A small group gathered up the thirteen dead Elves and took them away to be buried.

Mithos and Martel watched from the trees. "They…they did this because they were looking for me…" Mithos whispered, horrified.

"Hush Mithos, we don't want anyone to find us!"

"But they…they killed them."

"I know, sweetie, but right now we've got to go!"

She pulled her brother along once more, leading him through the thick undergrowth, away from Heimdall. She thought they were going to make it out when she felt a tug on her arm. "Not now Mithos, we're almost-hey!" It wasn't Mithos that had tugged on her arm, it was an Elf. Another stood a few feet away, holding Mithos. "Found ya," the Elf said.

"Elder Eir wants to see the two of you," the other sneered.

* * *

"You can't just give him over to those people!" Martel protested. They two burly Elves and basically carried them back to the house of Elder Eir.

"It's not fair!"

"Fair?" Eir mocked. "Fair? I'll you what's not fair! It's not fair that the whole village was burned to the ground! It's not fair that thirteen Elves were killed today! It's not fair that all of this happened because those people wanted you, boy, and we couldn't give you to them!"

"Would you really have given him over to them?" Martel struggled against her captor's grip, but only half-heartedly.

"To save the village? Yes, I would handed the boy over immediately." Eir looked her straight in the eyes and said that. "Wouldn't you?"  
The question caught Martel off guard. One life for hundreds? "Well, I…"

"There, you see?" Eir paused for a moment. "You can't stay here. You have to leave." She was speaking to Mithos.

"What? Where are we going to go?" Mithos spoke, the first he'd spoken since Tyr and Freyja arrived.

"It doesn't matter to me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I simply handed you over to those two. Maybe if I was human…but my life is too long to deal with that. The important thing is that you leave. Now."

Neither Mithos nor Martel had anything to say.

"Take to the edge of town," she told the two Elves. When they returned, she said, "Send a message to Tyr and Freyja. Tell them Mithos escaped our grasp and was seen heading East. Towards Evet."

* * *

And there you have it. Please R&R, and **BE HONEST**! If something sucks, tell me.

If it starts to look like a plagurized version of HeroR's work, let me know.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we go with chapter 2! Not quite as long or action-packed as before, but hey, that's how things go. Thanks to TEAM_DERRICK for all his help. Also to Fried Cheesecake and HeroR for their reviews.**

**All credit to Namco Bandai.**

* * *

"Tyr! Lord Tyr!" The Valkyrie lieutenant skidded to a halt, saluted, and waited to be addressed.

Tyr regarded him with little interest. "Go on then."

"Sir!" The Valkyries saluted again. "The village Elder just passed a message on to us, sir. She says the half-elf boy escaped not ten minutes ago with his sister. She says they headed east, towards Evet."

"Damn!" Tyr slammed his single, exsphere-enhanced fist into a nearby tree, producing a good-sized dent. "From Evet they can book a ship to anywhere," he remarked, picking a splinter out of his knuckle with his teeth.

"Yes, sir. Should we give chase?"

"Yes, of course we'll chase the brat," Tyr said impatiently. "No doubt the Elves probably let him go, too."

"What do you want us to do with the Elves, sir?"

"Nothing. We won't get anything more from them. She told us the kid left, so lets just leave this awful, marshy hell."

"Very well, sir.

Tyr watched him go, and then turned his attention back to his hand. Finding no serious injuries, he reached across to touch the stump of his left arm. No blood this time. He could still feel it sometimes; pain would shoot up his left arm – or what remained of it - every now and then. Phantom pain, the doctors called it. He snorted, fat lot of good doctors were after…

"Are we moving out yet, Tyr?" Absorbed in his own thoughts, Tyr failed to notice Feyja until she was right beside him.

"Hm? Oh, yeah. We're chasing the brats to Evet." The light caught the exsphere on her forehead, and drew his eyes to it. Just like an Elf to think that was fashionable. Knowing Feyja, it wasn't fashion, just what…?

"We have to move fast, then, else they can charter a ship to anywhere."

"That, or they could hide in Moria," Tyr said sarcastically.

"The Dwarves?" He could see she was thinking seriously about it.

"I was just kidding. You don't think they would actually consider going to the Dwarves, do you?"

"It's a possibility, Tyr, one we shouldn't ignore. I'll contact Forseti. Thanks for the idea."

Tyr wasn't sure whether or not say "thanks" as Freyja stepped aside to contact the Dwarven Jotnar. When she was finished, she assured him that their comrade was watching to the two Half-elves. That left him with the task of moving the Valkyries quickly between here and Evet. Two hours later, they were moving, with the two kids slowly slipping from Tyr's grasp.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set when Mithos and Martel finally decided to stop for the night. They gathered some dry brush around their campsite, and Mithos started the fire with a Fireball, while Martel gathered some wild nuts and berries. Elves weren't in the habit of eating meat, but Martel suspected they might have to break that sooner or later.

Still hungry, Mithos sat across from Martel, staring at the fire, knees drawn up. "Where should we go, Martel?"

"I don't know, Mithos," she admitted sadly. "The port city of Evet is week's journey west of here. From there we could get passage to anywhere in the world."

"But we don't have any money."

"Well…we could find jobs and work for one. Or…"

"Or hide in the cargo of a ship?"

"I wasn't… Don't worry. We'll be all right. I know some healing arts, and you some magic."

Mithos snorted. "We can't use any of that without tipping people off that we're Half-elves."

"Mithos, don't be like that. Some people are good – "

"Some. Not enough."

Martel watched her brother over the fire for a moment before speaking. "Get some sleep, Mithos. And try not to think bad thoughts."

Mithos grumbled about the ground, but promptly fell asleep.

"I worry about you Mithos," Martel said to her sleeping brother. "You're too bitter about the world sometimes. Too cynical. Too much for someone so young." But that's what happens in a world where people hate you for being born the wrong race. Martel sighed and watched the moons drift across the night sky. The tranquility of the starscape almost lulled her to sleep, except the sound of footsteps snapped her awake. A lot of footsteps. Soldiers.

"Wake up Mithos! Wake up." She shook her brother awake violently. He mumbled something and rubbed his eyes.

"Wha-? What's going on?"

"There's soldiers coming. I think they might be the ones from Heimdall! We need to hide. Come on!" She pulled Mithos behind her a distance then stopped. "Wait, the fire!"

"Right! Aqua…Wind… Mithos quit spell casting, and began shoveling dirt onto the fire.

"What are you doing?"

"That man, Tyr, he's a Half-elf. If I use magic, he'll sense it. But if we cover the fire with dirt, we might make him think we left a long time ago."

"Mithos, that's brilliant!"

He flashed her a grin.

Once the fire was out, they dove behind a pile of boulders, and lay flat. From their vantage point, it was difficult to see just how many soldiers there were, but they could easily identify the one-armed man called Tyr. Something on his remaining hand caught the moonlight a glittered for a moment, before he turned to look at something.

"Looks like they stopped here for a bit," he said to someone.

"How long ago do you think?" asked a female voice. Mithos guessed it was the same female from the village; she sounded important.

It sounded as though Tyr kicked at the ground. "Must have been some time ago."

"Why do you say that?"

"For one, I didn't sense magic being used in close proximity, did you?"

"No. But what's that have to do with anything?"

"They're kids. If we suddenly came up on them, they be stupid, forget we can sense magic and mana, and douse the fire with a water spell, or wind."

The other lady sounded far from convinced.

"Sir!" That must be one of the regular soldiers. "We've checked out the area. There's no sign of the two kids."

"Thank you. Dismissed. See, Feyja? I told you. They ran as fast as they can to civilization. Brats aren't used to being alone. Probable scared out of their wits."

The woman – Freyja – made a noise that sounded contemptuous, but did not argue. "These are you Valkyries, it's up to you to move them." She sounded resigned.

"Thank you." Was that sarcasm? "Forward to Evet!"

There was a lot of grumbling among the troops, but no one argued. After a few minutes, the sound of their passing was faint. Martel and Mithos tentatively stood up and glanced down the way that the people had gone. It was too dark to see anything, but Martel still managed to notice the scrape on her brother's arm. After some fussing, he consented to her Healing him. Deciding it probably wasn't safe to build another fire, Mithos volunteered to watch until dawn while his sister slept.

The next morning came far too quickly for Mithos. He trudged alongside his sister, not altogether there; he kept replaying the events of the previous night over in his head. It was unbelievable to him that there were people actually chasing him. It made him feel important, something, as a Half-elf, he though he would never experience.

"Hey, you okay?" Martel nudged him gently.

"I'm fine. It's just, I wonder who those people are?"

"Well," Martel said thoughtfully. "I remember that man – Tyr? Was that his name? – saying he was something called a "Jotnar", and that there were others. That woman he was with, I think she was one, too."

"Freyja."

"Hm?"

"Her name is Freyja; they said it last night."

"Oh, right." She was silent for a bit before saying, "Tyr said he could sense magic. That makes him either an Elf or a Half-elf."

"No!" Mithos exclaimed in surprise, but after thinking it over, he said, "That makes him one of us, maybe."

"Yes," Martel said sadly.

"Why would he come after us – er, me? We're the same race."

"Why do Humans fight wars and kill each other? They're the same," Martel said bitterly. When Mithos failed to produce an answer, she continued. "What race they are doesn't concern me as much as which nation they serve: Sylvarant, or Tethe'alla."

"Why's that?" Mithos hadn't thought about the war in a long time. In truth, he never really thought about it at all. Life in Heimdall was always so peaceful. _Sheltered_ was the word that sprang to Mithos's mind now.

"Well, knowing which nation is trying to capture you is a good indicator of which way _not_ to travel." She punctuated that with a smile, as if making a joke. Mithos smiled back, knowing full well that it was no joke.

* * *

"Dammit!" Tyr shouted again and looked around wildly for something to hit. Individual Valkyries scrambled to move out of his line of sight; no one wanted to feel the wrath of their irate commander. Many were silently thankful Tyr had had to leave his spear behind in the tundra, or else there would be blood spilling over his own blunder.

Had he actually posed a threat to his troops, Freyja would have stopped him. As it was, she let beat his anger out on the mountainside. Maybe, if he beat hard enough, the Dwarves might become irritated enough to teach him a lesson, the bespeckled Elf thought jovially. What a sight that would be: Tyr versus the Dwarves.

"This is your own fault you know," she said once his rage had gone on long enough.

"What?" Tyr whipped his head around and delivered one final blow to the rock wall. "This is _my _fault?"

"Yes, it is." Freyja crossed her arms, not intimidated by Tyr's show of rage. "If I recall, you were so sure he had continued on at the campsite. Instead of stopping and checking it out, you rushed right on by."

"But the scouts – "

"You're their commander! You should have checked their findings. And since you didn't, the blame falls on you." She was in his face now, a finger jabbing him in the chest. Anyone else that tried that would have met a swift and bloody end. But Freyja was an equal to him in every way, so he had to put up with her. She was right, of course, however much he hated to admit it. He gritted his teeth, and brushed her off. When he began inspecting the raw knuckle he had used to pound on the mountain, Freyja saw that as much of an admission of guilt as she would get. "What next?"

"I think we should continue on to Evet." Freyja began to say something, but thought better of it. Tyr waited, when she remained silent, he continued. "Damn, I wish we hadn't have to give that old hag over that other old hag." He grinned at his own joke. The few Valkyries within earshot were torn between laughing at their commander's joke (for fear of punishment if they didn't) or pretending they hadn't heard (for fear of punishment if they didn't). Whichever they chose, Tyr ignored them.

"You wouldn't call Nótt an 'old hag' to her face," Freyja pointed out.

"No. But that's why I can do I here: 'cause she's not around." Freyja shook her head, defeated. Tyr continued. "If we had that old Seer, I wouldn't have to make the decisions…"

Freyja waited expectantly. "_But_…"

"But… I'm leaving patrols of troops along the roads. If they see anything, they send the message down to me in Evet. If they get lucky, they might capture the brats. I'm also going to send a squad to Moria to warn Forseti. On the off chance that they _do_ go there, they won't be able to slip through their meaty fingers. Meanwhile, I'll be waiting in Evet with the bulk of my troops."

"That's pretty well thought out," Freyja said thoughtfully. "For you." She stuck her tongue out at him. Before he could think of a comeback, she spoke. "I think I'll go with the troops to Moria; He wants a status report on the exsphere seed mining. Forseti's been wrapped up in his work to be in contact, so he asked me to check on things."

"Sounds to me like He don't trust the Dwarves," Tyr said carefully.

"He would be a fool to put trust in anyone. Can you tell me that you trust me? Completely?"

"Well…of course not."

"You see? A certain amount of distrust keeps every organization moving smoothly." With a rather sadistic smile, Freyja called off the identification numbers of the two squads who were to accompany her to Moria. The squad leaders looked to Tyr for permission; he nodded curtly. Without waiting for further permission, the Elven Jotnar tramped off eastward, to Moria.

With a resigned sigh, Tyr directed another squad to follow the road back the way they had come, and pair off every few miles. He took the rest and headed southeast, dropping pairs of Valkyries at regular intervals.

_We aren't supposed to trust each other? _

_

* * *

_After two days of roughing it on the road (and occasionally off the road as they make wide detours to avoid soldiers obviously left to catch them) the Yggdrasill siblings were astonished to witness a mansion appear on the side of the road. Indeed, after two days without seeing a single soul, they were beginning to wonder if Heimdall was all there ever was to Aselia.

"Let's ask how far it is to the next town," Martel said after she and her brother stared at it for a good while. Mithos protested noiselessly briefly, but followed his sister to the front door. She raised her and to knock, but stopped her self and reached for the hanging knocker. The sound of metal on metal (as it turned out that the doors were made of metal – something Mithos would never have imagined) seemed to echo throughout the whole construct.

The two stood waiting for a minute, two minutes, five minutes, and still no one answered the door. "Maybe no one's home?" Mithos offered. Martel shrugged, stepped back and tried to peer into the tall windows bordering the large doors, but found that curtains were drawn over them. She shrugged and beckoned her brother to follow. Just then, something clicked behind them, and the doors swung open.

"Oh, how very rude of me. This old house is terribly large; I can't get anywhere very fast, and that's not the age taking, no siree!" In the doorway stood a gray-haired old man. Well, he looked old, with his hunch and thick glasses.

"I'm sorry," Martel started to apologize, "We didn't mean to cause you any trouble. We were just wondering how far it is to the nearest town."

"Oh, not too far at all, but"-he adjusted the glasses in his nose-"it's far too late for children to be wandering around. Come inside; I'm sure I can find room in this old place for guests." He smiled a toothy smile.

"Oh, we couldn't possibly-"

"Nonsense!" The old man took both of them by the arm and pulled them inside before they could protest further. Inside was even grander than outside. The ceiling towered over them in grand arches; the floor was polished marble. Then, as they watched the little old man shuffle around with his walking stick, it felt unbelievably empty.

He beckoned them over before plopping himself down in an armchair. The two kids nervously sat down on the couch he indicated by waving his walking stick. The old man let out a contented sigh and closed his eyes. Mithos feared he might fall asleep on them, but then he seemed to snap awake.

"Sorry I was a bit rough with you before, but it wouldn't have done you a lick of good to go wandering into town this late."

"Why's that?" Martel asked cautiously.

The old man grinned, and rubbed the tip of his ear between his thumb and finger. A round ear. Puzzled, Martel reached for her own ear, but dropped her hand in shameful understanding. "Oh."

"That's right. They don't take kindly to Half-elves; most folk don't."

"Well, you don't have anything against Half-elves," Mithos pointed out. "Right?"

A serious look took hold of the old man. "That's very true, young man. I have no problems with Elves, Half-elves, Dwarves, or anything else the world might throw at me. Unfortunately, I am in the minority." He seemed to stare at something behind them for a moment before focusing on the two children seated before him. "I seem to have neglected introductions. Some host I am." His earlier cheery mood returned instantly. "My name is Thaddeus Johansson Erick Linglemier, IV, but everyone calls me Boltzman."

Mithos looked up at his sister, who merely shrugged.

"I'm Martel, and this is Mithos." Martel studied the old man before asking, "Why do they call you Boltzman?"

"Who calls me Boltzman?"

"The… Everyone, you said."

"Why, that's because it's my name, child," he said that as if it should be obvious.

"Then what was…?" Martel started to protest, but decided it wasn't worth it. "Never mind. Anyway, it's really kind of you to put us up for the night."

"Oh no, it's no trouble at all." He wriggled his way out of the apparently smothering embrace of the armchair and down to the floor. "Come now, I'll show you where you can – Wait a moment." He hobbled over and sniffed at the two of them. "How long has it been since either of you bathed?" He raised one eyes brow, suspiciously like a parent would have.

Mithos thought about it. "Not since we left Heimdall, so…"

"Three days," Martel finished for him, but not proudly.

"Now that won't do at al, now will it?" He answered his own rhetorical question by shaking his head. "Come, come. I'll show you to where you can bathe." He was so cheerful that it was hard to say no, so Mithos found himself following behind Boltzman with Martel.

The bath was wonderful. Up until that moment, Mithos had taken baths for granted. Being able to scrub three days of filth off was the best feeling in the world. Or, it was until he saw the food Boltzman had laid out. Mithos was so enthralled in it all, he failed to hear any part of the conversation Martel was having with Boltzman. After they ate, Boltzman showed them to rooms they could use. Mithos flopped down on the comfortable bed and fell asleep almost instantly. For once, he didn't dream of bad things.

* * *

"You sure they went in there?"

"Of course I'm sure. There's nowhere else for them to go, is there? They didn't just vanish, and if they wandered into Aeleus we'd already know about it."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Look, see?" He handed the other the binoculars. "That's the green-haired girl that was with the brat."

"She his sister?"

"Yeah."

"She's hot."

"She's sixteen, you perv."

"Hey, hot it hot."

"Gimmie those." He shoved the other and took back the binoculars. "This is that crazy old man's house. What was his name?"

"…Boltzman?"

"That's it. The townsfolk say he's some sort of Healer. The best."

"I thought only Elves and us Half-elves could use magic?"

"Idiot! Healing is chi magic: it doesn't depend on mana like elemental magic. Even a Dwarf can Heal."

"Not that they ever leave their caves," he snorted.

"Very true. Damn, she turned her light out. Alright, we're going ahead to Aeleus and warning Lieutenant Ringold."

"Okay," but he lingered.

"Let's go you idiot perv!"

"I just wanted another look!"

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**

**Please R&R as usual.**


	3. Chapter 3

**I noticed that the chapters have gotten progressively shorter... Woops. Oh well, I'll fix that in the next chapter.**

**All credit to Namco Bandai Tales Studios.  
**

* * *

When Mithos awoke the sun was already streaming in through the curtains. For a brief moment, he forgot where he was. Then the event of last night trickled back and he remembered the crazy old man who let them stay. What was Boltzman's story, he wondered. How did that old coot wind up with an amazing place like this? He would have to remember to ask him later.

Sitting up, he noticed a set of clothes laid out on the edge of the bed. On top, there was a note. _I noticed how dirty your old clothes were, so I hunted around and found these old ones. They should fit. They're not much, but at least they're clean._ When they were on, he examined himself in the mirror. "I look like a cleric…or close to it," he said, running a hand through his blond hair. "They are comfortable though." He decided to keep them.

Voices trailed in from downstairs. One was the cheery singsong of his sister; the other voice was the quick, choppy speech of Boltzman. "…What color they were wearing?" That was Boltzman.

"Um, I don't really remember," Martel admitted, embarrassed. "Oh! Good morning Mithos."

"I see you found the clothes I left out for you," he said as soon as he rounded the corner to the kitchen. "Wasn't sure how you'd take to 'em."

"They were red," Mithos blurted.

"What?"

"The soldiers – the ones who came to Heimdall – they were in red armor."

Boltzman breathed heavily and was silent for perhaps half a minute before, "Well, that certainly changes things. Not really, actually, but it puts the right perspective on things."

"Why's that?" Mithos took a seat next to his sister. Only then did he notice the black-and-green blouse that was obviously new. It surprisingly complemented her light-green hair.

"What color the armor was denotes which nation those soldiers served under. Sylvaranti Red, you say?" Mithos nodded. "Then the Empire of Sylvarant is looking for you."

"But why?" Mithos blurted again.

"I wish I knew child," Boltzman hung his head. Martel reached over and squeezed Mithos's shoulder to reassure him. It was nice, but it didn't help. "The only thing I can tell you is 'don't go to Sylvarant'. I wish I could tell you not to go to Tethe'alla either, but…at least then you'd have a political entity surrounding you."

Curious, Martel asked, "Whish nation controls this area?"

"Officially? No one. Tethe'alla and Sylvarant launch their armies at each other up and down this continent every now and then. Unofficially, Moria allies itself with Sylvarant, and while the Elves feign neutrality, they support Tethe'alla. They send resources and high grade magitechnology to Meltokio – the capital." As an afterthought, he added, "Tethe'alla's not exactly famous for its tolerance, however. You'll find less Half-elves there than in Sylvarant."

"We can't exactly be picky, not with one side actively hunting for us, can we?" Martel asked bitterly.

"No, I don't suppose you can," Boltzman admitted. Finding nothing more to say on the matter, he invited them to join him for breakfast. The meal passed in uncomfortable silence, as the siblings pondered their future, and Boltzman tried to come up with a way to help them.

As they were cleaning up, he turned to Mithos. "Would you mind doing me a favor, young man?"

"S-sure." He couldn't very well refuse, not after being put up for the night and two meals.

"Run into to town. Follow the main street until you come to a bookstore. Go in, and look for a book: _Verita Magicae Novitesse_." He handed him a coin purse. "Give the bookkeeper the three gold coins he'll ask for, and if he give you a look, give him two silvers more. You shouldn't have any trouble."

Mithos looked to his sister, who only smiled. "You don't need my permission."

"Okay." He told the old man.

"Splendid. Should be quick, but don't dawdle. Go on now, scoot." He saw him out the door, and turned back to Martel. "He's quite the timid one."

"So you noticed," Martel sighed. Then she chuckled in spite of herself. "Yes, I suppose he is, but can you blame him? Heimdall wasn't exactly a friendly place to grow up."

"Oh no, forgive me. I wasn't accusing."

"No, it's fine." Martel slumped back into her chair from earlier.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you two end up alone in that village? Er," he fumbled around for the words he was looking for. "What I mean is – "

"How did our parents die?" Martel supplied them for him.

"Well…yes."

"It was a long time ago. Mithos doesn't remember it; he was too young. I don't rightly know exactly what was wrong with her, but she always told us that she was sick, and wouldn't be around much longer. I guess we kind of got used to the idea and didn't take it as hard as we should have. Then one day, she was gone. The funeral was almost immediately." She paused, reflecting. "Did you know that Elves cremate their dead, rather than bury them?"

"No, I did not know that," Boltzman admitted.

"Well, they do. I never got to see one last time." Tears formed in her eyes, and she had to stop speaking. "No, I don't think Mithos remembers that day."

"I…Forgive me, Martel, I didn't mean to…"

"No, it's alright. I'm fine."

She wiped her tears away and put on a brave smile. Boltzman smiled sadly back. After a moment, he spoke again. "How much Healing do you know?"

"What an odd question." Then, "Very little, I fear."

"I can teach you more, if you would like."

"Can you?" Martel's eyes widened. "But, I thought Humans couldn't use magic?"

"They can't. Healing does not draw upon mana, but upon chi to function. Chi is present in all living things, and so we draw from ourselves to Heal. Chi magic existed long before mana came to the world, and might probably outlive it."

"I would be very grateful if you would teach me."

Boltzman frowned. "Unfortunately, there are no tomes of Healing as there are other magic. As such, most of our techniques are passed on by word-of-mouth."

Martel nodded, then thought of something. "Boltzman? What was the name of the book you sent Mithos to get?"

"_Verita Magicae Novitesse_," he said slyly.

"Yes, but does it mean?" She put her hands on her hips.

"I see you already suspect the answer," he observed but continued. "It means "A Beginner's Guide to Magic." That set the two of them laughing.

* * *

Mithos did his best not to attract attention as he walked through Aeleus, which only succeeded in making him more noticeable. He shuffled along with his head low, and didn't speak to anyone. The greetings he failed to return bought him curious glances. Everyone said "Hello" to each other in town; when someone failed to do so, it made people aware that he was a stranger.

At least he had remembered to comb his hair down over his pointed ears. The last thing he needed was another reason for people to look at him. If they saw his ears, chances are they would run him out of town. Not to mention Boltzman along with them for harboring Half-elves. He clenched his fists angrily at the thought, but otherwise went right on being "inconspicuous".

The bookstore wasn't hard to find; it was right where the old man said it would be. He went inside ever so carefully, as if not daring to disturb the world around him. He knew the bookkeeper was looking at him, could feel his eyes boring into the back of his head. Doing his best to act casual, Mithos browsed the shelves. He encountered a few in languages he didn't recognize, which made him nervous. _What if the book is in another language and I can't find it?_ But find it he did, though the words meant nothing to him.

Just as Boltzman predicted, the bookkeeper gave him a curious glance when he laid the book and three gold coins on the counter. He weighed the coins in his hand a little longer than necessary and then raised an eyebrow at Mithos. Mithos placed two silvers on the counter. They were swept up at once at the same time as he said, "Have a nice day."

With the new book under his arm, Mithos walked a little more confidently ack, even returning some of the greetings from the locals. It felt good, the best he'd felt since…well, since before the Sylvaranti came to Heimdall. For just a moment, everything didn't seem so dark.

* * *

"Come on, keep up!" Jax yelled back to Duncan, who had fallen behind on their patrol.

"I'm just watching your back, Jax."

"I actually feel more in danger when I can't see you. Now get up here." Duncan shrugged and doubled his pace.

"You know what?" Duncan asked, but went on before waiting for an answer. "Every time I belch silently, my mouth is filled with the taste and aroma of bananas." Jax stared. Hard. "Seeing as how I ate a banana for lunch, this is pretty normal."

Jax was speechless for a few minutes. "You know, I think I like it better when you were still drooling over that girl."

"Oh _man_ she was hot!"

Jax groaned and mentally calculated if killing Duncan would be worth the punishment he would receive. It wasn't. Barely. A few minutes later, Duncan fell out of step again. Just as Jax was gearing up for a good exercise in stress releasing, he saw the kid.

"There he is!"

"Who, Jax?"

"The kid we're supposed to be looking for." He got a blank stare. "The kid whose sister you – "

"Oh! Him."

Jax groaned again. "Yes, now come on!" They raced after the blond Half-elf, but stayed far enough behind so as not to draw attention. At the edge of town, they quit following. "He must be going back to that old man's mansion. It's the only place that way."

"What mansion?"

"The mansion we were at – " Jax gave up, seeing no ground would be gained in Duncan's thick head. "Never mind. We gotta tell the Lieutenant!"

"What mansion, Jax? Jax!" Duncan called after his squad leader; he received no answer.

* * *

"…And that's the spell for curing poisoning." Boltzman concluded proudly.

"Thank you so much!" Martel clasped his hands in hers.

"It was nothing. You learn very quickly." He hesitated, then, "Was your mother a Healer?"

"I don't know? Why?"

"Healing often runs in the family. I was merely curious. Pay it no mind. Ah! Mithos has returned." The young boy rushed up to Boltzman and thrust the book out.

"I got it! I did just what you said." He seemed very proud of his accomplishment.

"That's very good, Mithos, but this book isn't for me."

"It's not?"

"No. It's for you."

"For…for me?" Mithos pulled the book back.

"Yes. Do you know what the title means?" He waited for Mithos to shake his head. "It's a guide for learning to use magic."

Mithos's eyes got wide. "Really?"

Boltzman nodded. "Yes. Beyond the title, the passages are written in several languages, one of which, I believe, is the old Elven tongue. You should be able to read it, but I can help translate if not."

Mithos was staring at the book. "I… Thank you!" He reached out and hugged Boltzman close.

"You're welcome, my boy. Now go on, have a look."

Mithos detached himself from the old man, found a seat at the table, and set to devouring the book. Martel looked on like a proud parent. "I've never seen him this excited about anything before. Ever. Thank you very much, Boltzman."

"Oh, no, it was my pleasure." He smiled at Martel. Then he was looking past her, out the window. "What's going on out there?"

* * *

Valkyrie Lieutenant Gigorrah cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Attention, Boltzman! We know that you are hiding the Half-elf refugees Mithos and Martel inside your home. Turn them over to us now, and you will be spared." The last sentence should be just vague enough to frighten the old man. After all, what was one lowly old man going to do to stand up to the Valkyries? And a Human one at that.

A few minutes passed, but he received no answer. Gigorrah repeated the demands, and added, "This is your last warning." Still nothing. Finally, he made a motion to his troops. The rank of archers beside him let fly a barrage of fire-tipped arrows. The front rooms of the mansion were instantly ablaze. "Go in," he told the infantry behind him. A few troops yelled in pain when they touched the front metal doors to open them. "Idiots."

* * *

"Come on, then." Boltzman calmly ushered the two children away from the burning sections of his home. As an afterthought, he turned and said, "Barrier," sending up a magic wall that might delay the attackers a bit.

The room he led them to was small and filled with what looked like treasure chests. Boltzman locked the door behind him and yanked open the nearest chest, muttering to himself.

"What are you doing!" Mithos exclaimed, watching the old man jump between chests.

"We can't very well go out on our own without any sort of weapons, now can we?" He produced a sword and a shield and handed them to Mithos before diving back into the chest. When he surfaced again, he was holding an elegant staff. "For you," he said to Martel.

"Me? Why?" She took it tentatively.

"The staff is the symbol of the Healer. Without it people won't – ah, it seems they're inside now." The house shook. Some part of the structure had been knocked in – or exploded. "Let's go."

"Go where? You locked the door behind you," Mithos reminded him.

"What? Oh, yes." Boltzman wrinkled his face, as if trying very hard to remember something. "Ah! Yes, it should be…here." He pressed his hand to a section of the wall. It swung outward, allowing the heat from the fire to rush inside. "You don't think I'm insane, do you?" Mithos was too busy coughing to respond.

* * *

"There's no one inside, sir!" The Valkyries dressed in Sylvaranti Red raced out of the burning mansion an instant before the whole thing caved in.

"What do you mean?" Gigorrah grabbed the nearest soldier by the throat and lifted him high, his body flowing with extra energy provided by his exsphere. "People just don't disappear, especially not an old man and two children." He squeezed. The man gasped for air. Something popped. The man struggled harder. Snap. The man fell limp. Gigorrah tossed him aside, disgusted.

"Which of you is captain?" he asked the squad that had raced out of the mansion.

"He was…sir."

"Congratulations, then," Gigorrah pointed to the man who had spoken, "you're in charge now. Find them!"

"Yes, sir!" The new-captain urged his troops forward. They all wished Jotnar Tyr were still here; he never killed anyone outright for failure. But they said nothing. They didn't want to die.

* * *

"Hey, you!"

Mithos almost stopped and turned around at the call. It sounded very authoritative, and disobedience was not a tolerable attitude back in Heimdall.

"In the name of Nid…uh, Sylvarant, stop!"

Mithos risked a look back. The soldiers were gaining.

"Martel…"

"What?" She looked back. "Oh. Boltzman!"

"What?" He looked back. "Oh." He kept running. "Mithos, you know offensive magic, correct?"

"A little. I mean…I've never used it on anyone before…"

"You're going to have to learn fast then." He skidded to a stop, catching the Yggdrasill siblings before they fell, and spun them round.

The squad kept on charging.

"Uhh…" Mithos aid meekly.

"You can do it, son," Boltzman encouraged.

"Please, Mithos," Martel smiled urgently.

"…Right…uhh…" He nearly froze with that dull expression of his face, but somehow found his courage. "F-Fireball!" Fire erupted from his outstretched hand and slammed into the nearest soldier. He went down. Only after another followed suit did that squad halt.

"Pow Hammer!" That was Boltzman, Mithos realized. Several what appeared to be squeaky hammers fell on the soldiers. It was enough – however silly it looked, because more went down. Mithos called on a Wind Blade to send the remaining four to the ground.

"Had we more time, I might teach how to use that blade," Boltzman muttered, half to himself. "But we must flee. Come."

* * *

Thelleius felt himself get kicked in the stomach. He jerked awake to find Lieutenant Gigorrah towering over him. "You failed me, Captain." His voice was as cold as ice, and felt like another kick in the gut.

"B-But sir, th-they had magic, and-"

"Silence." Thellius fell silent. "I don't want to hear excuses, I want results, and you, Captain, have failed to deliver those." He hoisted the terrified man off the ground with a hand around his throat.

"P-Please…don't. I have…a wife and…"

"You're pathetic family is not worth more than seeing our Lord victorious, is it?" the question was unintentionally rhetorical, as Thellius was unable to reply. A sickening snap a moment later answered the question far better than words ever could.

"Follow them," Gigorrah ordered, pissed off. "We must not fail Jotnar Tyr."

* * *

**Thanks for reading!**

**Please R&R!  
**


End file.
